Jason Elam - Monday Night Jihad

“Impossible to anticipate,” Moss agreed.

“But another attack would most likely look really bad. Think of the way your opponents could use that against you if you ever decided to seek higher office.”

Secretary Moss was now leaning forward in his chair. “I see what you’re saying… not that my personal career matters at all to me compared to national security.”

“Of course not.”

“I just wouldn’t want anything to happen to those American citizens in L.A.” He pondered this for a few moments and then shook his head. “But I’m afraid my hands are tied. The president’s declared this a National Special Security Event, so the Secret Service is handling the security for this PFL Cup. And although they are technically under the Department of Homeland Security, they’ve always been pretty much an entity unto themselves. They don’t like me intruding into their area of responsibility, nor do I like to do it.”

“Yes, sir, I know. All I’m asking for is permission to take this information to the Secret Service. I’ll let them know that I’m not looking to interfere at all in what they’re doing for security-in fact, I can supply them with additional warm bodies from CTD if they would like. But I will ask that my two ops teams be allowed on-site and that they be given free rein.”

“What? You want me to let Jim Hicks and his loose cannons into the PFL Cup? They’ll probably blow the place up themselves!”

“Listen, Moss!” Porter shouted as he jumped out of his chair. Then he caught himself and slowly lowered himself back into his seat. Remember who you’re dealing with, he told himself. Expecting Moss to understand the ins and outs of international security issues is like asking a six-year-old to understand the intricacies of astrophysics.

The secretary settled himself comfortably into his chair and put his feet back on the coffee table.

Porter’s outburst had given the upper hand back to Moss, and the DC regretted it. “Please, sir. Hicks and company understand the Cause better than anyone I know. I’m just concerned how it might look if something happened and you had kept the most knowledgeable people out of the stadium. Besides, you’re too bright a man to let that happen.”

Secretary Moss smiled. He clearly knew when he was being kissed up to, and he obviously liked it. “Okay, Stan, I’ll talk to Secret Service Director LeBlanc. However, I’m holding you responsible for Hicks and company’s actions. Do we have an understanding?”

“Yes, sir,” Porter said, rising out of his chair.

“Wait a minute. Sit… sit. There’s one more thing. In exchange for this little arrangement, I want the Scorpion delivered here for trial. We need to show the world how America metes out justice to those who dare take her on.”

Porter, recognizing another man’s photo opportunity when he saw it, protested, “Sir, pardon me, but that is insane! Do you realize the risk we would be bringing to our shores by trying him here?”

“Still, I think it’s important for our citizens to see the face of the man responsible for these attacks, especially when he is convicted. Besides, I want to look at this man eye to eye.”

Yeah, while the flashbulbs are popping, Porter thought. “I’ll see what we can do.”

He rose and walked around the coffee table to the secretary. Moss extended his hand in a way that had the DC wondering if he was supposed to shake it or kiss it. He opted for the shake. He stood for a moment, staring at the secretary’s extended legs, which were blocking the direct way out. Then, wisely choosing what his head told him to do over what his heart said, Porter walked back around the table and out the door.

Thursday, January 22

Landstuhl Regional Medical Center

Kaiserslautern Military Community

Ramstein, Germany

Riley’s eyes fluttered, then opened. The light in the room felt like a sledgehammer to his skull, so he quickly closed them again.

Where am I? From his brief glance, he could tell he was in a hospital room-where, he had no clue. One by one, he wiggled his fingers and toes. They all moved, though not without some serious discomfort. So, everything is in operating order-nothing severed, nothing broken.

Next question: how did I get here? His brain started rewinding its tape. He saw the rescue-Skeeter and Guitiérrez coming through the darkness. He saw the room where he had been cuffed to the floor; twin fires in his left wrist and shoulder protested the recollection. He saw the chair he had been tied to when they-

Lord… how could they have done those things to me?

He felt the knife across his chest and side, the bat against his stomach, the cane against his feet, the electrodes against-

A wave of nausea rose through his body, mercifully taking over his thoughts. He rode the wave out until his insides settled again.

He hadn’t seen anyone in the moment his eyes had been open, but he knew he wasn’t alone. The sound of fingers on a laptop keyboard was evidence of that. As Riley listened, he recognized a very distinct pattern-one he had heard many times before. A quick burst of keys, followed by the tap-tap-tap of the backspace.

“Hey, Scott,” he rasped.

“Pach! Oh, man!” Riley heard the clap of the laptop being closed. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like my head was used by Evander Holyfield as a speed bag. Any chance of dousing those lights?”

“Of course!”

When he heard the click of the overhead lights shutting off, Riley slowly cracked his eyes-this time with more long-term success. “Where am I?”

“Does something tell you we’re not in Italy anymore, Dorothy?” Scott laughed, and Riley forced a smile, though his friend’s enthusiasm for Riley’s consciousness was making the hammers in his head increase their pace. Seeing Riley’s expression, Scott continued, “Sorry, man. You know me-mouth first, brain second. We’re at Ramstein. Look familiar?”

Riley nodded faintly, thinking back to the last time he had been here. His hand traveled toward the scar on his hip but was halted by the pain that the movement caused in the rest of his body.

Scott handed him a small, clear cup of water.

Suddenly a thought thundered into Riley’s mind, and he quickly turned to Scott, spilling the water as he did. “The PFL Cup! Did you get my message about the PFL Cup?”

“Yeah, we did. I passed the info on to Division Chief Porter, who was going to take it up the chain.”

“I knew you’d figure it out, Scott,” Riley said with a sigh of relief before a wave of nausea overtook him. He quickly signaled Scott for the small bucket that was sitting on his bed stand for just such an occasion. Riley heaved for a full minute, but nothing came out. The only nourishment he’d had over the last four days was from the IV that was still in his arm.

When he was done, he nodded to Scott, who took the empty bucket from him. As he lay back, another recollection came. This one had him glad that the overhead fluorescents were off and the only light in the room was that of the afternoon sun slipping through the blinds. Pain seared through his chest as he reached up to wipe his eyes. Quietly, he said, “Sal Ricci, Scott… Sal is Hakeem.”

“Yeah, we know. I’m so sorry, Pach.”

“I still can’t…” Riley stopped to collect his emotions. The wound was still too raw for him to dwell there. “So, tell me how I got here,” he said, changing the subject.

“Well, after the gunfight at the O.K. Corral, we booked on down to Bari, picked up al-’Aqran, then grabbed our Gulfstream at the Bari International Airport.”

Riley nodded his understanding, and then a thought struck him. “Wait, wasn’t our jet parked up at Aviano?”

“Yeah, but Jim called it down. He figured that us getting out of there quickly was more important than getting out of there quietly-especially with you and Gilly.”